i’ve spoken about my love of louise bourgeois on here before. and my inability to spell her name first go. and now, it’s a super sad day for me to honour her whole life. she died yesterday, aged 98.
i have a few confessions to make:
i didn’t know who she was until i was 2 years out of artschool. (can i blame the fact that i was in the photography department? unlikely – i did women artists as a history/theory elective)
my friend and co-curator at project, moira kirkwood, saw the work i was making at the time and almost hit me over the head with her book, saying that i absolutely must see her work. i fell in love at first sight.
I was so lucky to see her retrospective at the tate modern, thanks to the goodness of feltbug – my fellow bourgoise-phile in london.
we spent aaages there and i watched all the films, drew extensively from her sculptures, pored over the drawing cabinet and pined over the massive pile of books that i couldn’t buy for baggage weight restrictions.
i also had a secret desire to meet her one day.
i know that she was super-old. that was part of what made her so inspirational to me. her longevity conquered all the bullshit of the artworld, of the patriarchical hegemony, of the financial/commercial conniptions. it endured and its endurance spoke volumes.
and now i’m super sad that she has passed away.
i’m glad that, in her lifetime, she received the kinds of accolades she deserved – massive public commissions, critical respect, institutional recognition. i’m glad that, because of that, her legacy will (hopefully) continue through the ages – that she’s not just some young, spunky, hip young thang that made the art boys pants warm and whose work eventually peters out.
tonight i think i might stitch an homage to the other LB:
je suis triste.